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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 



The Arcadian Library 

II 

The Great Procession 



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C{)iltiren 

Harriet Prescott Spojfford 

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THE ARCADIAN LIBRARY 



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Bojgton 

1902 



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Copyright 1902 by 
Harriet Prescott Spofford 

All Rights Reserved 



THr^^BRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 
Tvro Cgwe8 Received 

iUL. 19 1902 

aCopvriomt entry 

^-^XXa No 

^ ^^ 
COPY 8. 






^^e Gorham Press, Boston 



Something to Uve for came to the place , 

Something to die for, mayhe, 
Something to give even sorrow a grace — 

And yet it ivas only a hahy! 

Cooing and laughter and gurgles and cries, 

Dimples for tenderest hisses, 
Chaos of hopes and of raptures and sighs, 

Chaos of fears and of blisses . 

Last year, like all years, the rose and the thorn, 

This yea/i^ a wilderness, maybe; 
But heaven stooped under the roof on the morn 

That it brought there only a baby. 



Contents 

The Great Procession, 9 

The Cradles, 12 

The Amber Bead, 14 

Among the StarSj 16 

The Little Irish Girl, 17 

A Legend, 21 

A Promise, 23 

The King's Dust, 24 

Little January, 25 

The Forerunner, 27 

Our Maying, 29 

A Fishing Trip, 30 

Sma' Folk, 32 

Her Horoscope, 34 

The Fourth of July, 37 

Flag Song, 41 

The Problem, 43 

The Reason Why, 44 

An Apparition, 45 

Me, 46 

Love, 47 

Under Green Boughs, 48 

One's Will, 49 

Next the Head, 50 

Thanks, 52 

Two Generations, 53 

What One Boy Thinks, 54 



Fern Seed, 57 

A Bicycle Sang, 58 

On the Trolley, 59 

The Gingerbread Vine^ 60 

The School Mistress, 62 

The Lazy Hour, 63 

The Bells of September, 64 

The Fairy of Early Fall, 65 

In Nutting Time, 66 

Puss, 67 

The Solemn Truth, 69 

The Malison, 73 

The Child that Gave Trouble, 74 

Her Wings, 76 

The Witch Dance, 79 

The Land of Story Books, 81 

The Thanksgiving Tree, 83 

A Strange Country, 85 

In Icy Weather, 87 

The Snow Flurry, 88 

Jo's Toboggan, 89 

The Yule Log's Song, 90 

A Christmas Story, 95 

Christmas Cheer, 97 

A Christmas Lullaby, 99 

The Fossil Kaindrops, 100 

Wings, 102 

Birds and Bonnets, 103 

In an Old Garden, 107 

8 



The Gbeat Procession 

Did you ever happen to think, when dark 
Lights up the lamps outside the pane^ 
And you look through the glass on that wonder- 
land 
Where the witches are making their tea in the 

rain, 
Of the great procession that says its prayers 
All the world over, and climbs the stairs, 
And goes to a wonderland of dreams, 
Where nothing at all is just what it seems? 

All the world over at eight o'clock. 
Sad and sorrowful, glad and gay. 
These with their eyes as bright as dawn, 
Those almost asleep on the way. 
This one capering, that one cross. 
Plaited tresses, or curling floss. 
Slowly the long procession streams 
Up to the wonderland of dreams. 

Far in the islands of the sea 

The great procession takes up its way. 

Where, throwing their faded flower-wreaths 

down. 
Little savages tire of play; 



Though they have no stairs to climb at all. 
And go to sleep wherever they fall, 
By the sea's soft song and the star's soft gleams 
They are off to the wonderland of dreams. 

Then the almond lids of the Tartar boy 

Droop like a leaf at close of day; 

And her mat is pleasant as clouds of down 

To the tawny child of the Himalay; 

And the lad on the housetop at Ispahan 

Sees night, while the rose-breaths around him 

fan, 
Lead up from the desert his starry teams 
And mount to the wonderland of dreams. 

Still westward the gentle shadow steals, 
And touches the head of the Russian maid. 
And the Vikings' sons leave wrestle and leap, 
And Gretchen loosens her yellow braid. 
And Bess and Arthur follow along, 
And sweet Mavourneen at even- song. 
All mingling the morrow's hopes and schemes 
With those of the wonderland of dreams. 

The round world over^ with dark and dew, 

See htfw the great proceesion swells; 

Hear the music to which it moves, 

The children's prayers and the evening bells, 



10 



It climbs the slopes of the far Azores^ 
At last it reaches our western shores, 
And where can it go at these extremes 
But into the wonderland of dreams? 

Hurrying, scampering, lingering, slow, 

Ah, what a patter of little feet! 

Eyelids heavy as flowers with bees. 

Was ever anything half so sweet? 

Out of the tender evening blue — 

I do believe it has come for you 

To be off to the wonderland of dreams. 

Where nothing at all is just what it seems! 



11 



The Cradles 



Lapped in the eider, and wrapped in the silk, 

A cherub watching her beautiful rest, 

Carven from ivory white as milk, 

The little princess lies in her nest; 

And the upstretched wings hold the drift of lace 

That floats like a cloud round the flower-sweet 

face, 
While jeweled ladies wave to and fro 
Great plumes that perfume the winds they blow. 



n 



Folded in fleece, and swinging aloft 

In the rough-rolled sheet of hemlock bark, 

The pioneer baby sleeps as soft. 

Though round her the forest frowns vast and 

dark, 
Where the axe rings clear and the bird sings 

high, 
And the beast with a crash is leaping by, 
And the shaft of sunshine comes and goes. 
And the wild bee fancies her cheek a rose. 



1^ 



Ill 



Long, long ago, in the misty gleam 

Of that elder day where the ways divide^ 

Their little ancestress dreamed her dream 

By the spear-heads' glow and the camp-fire's side, 

While the blood of battle across the night 

Yet sang of the awful joys of fight, 

And with all its dints of fray and field, 

One rocked her to sleep in her father's shield. 



13 



The Amber Bead 

I am only a bit of amber 

That dazzles the baby's eyes; 
But the light in my innermost chamber 

Is the light of the pristine skies. 

For ages ago, and ages. 

When, far in the upper air, 
Vast firs, like old archimages. 

Shed incense everywhere. 

And, all in the wide gray weather 

Which wrapped the whole round world, 

Solemnly waved together 

As the thick warm vapors curled, 

In the sunshine's sudden bursting 

I oozed from a topmost bough, 
And I drank that splendor thirsting, — 

There is no such sunshine now! 

And the wings that came round me flashing,- 
None like them are fluttering here, — 

I caught in my heavy plashing 
And sealed in my shining sphere. 



U 



Oh, life that was wild and glorious 
When the elements wrought for man, 

And wave over fire victorious 

Shaped the earth to her ancient plan! 

Then the tides, in the great world-changes, 

Rose in their mighty turn, 
Rolled over the fir-tree's ranges, 

And the plume of the giant fern. 

And ages had past, and ages. 

When the winds scooped the deep sea-floor. 
And the seas in their storm-blown rages 

Tossed me to light once more. 

And now, half a jest, it may be, 

Half a charm, you hang in your mirth 

Round the throat of the newborn baby 
The oldest thing on earth! 



15 



Among The Stars 

In summer Avhen the woods are green, 

With meadow spaces in between, 

With boughs that in the breezes toss, 

With grass and leaves and vines and moss — 

If, up in Venus or in Mars, 

Some little child looks at the stars. 

And one great Lamp swings out on high, 

Like a live emerald, in the sky, 

I wonder if she thinks, "How clear 

The sweet Earth shines to-night, and near!" 

In winter, when the snows have come, 
And far and wide the ice-fields bloom, 
And cloudless depths of perfect hue 
Bathe all the world in blazing blue. 
When gazing on her evening skies 
That little child with happy eyes 
Sees one great planet, bluer far 
Than Lyra, a great sapphire star, 
I wonder if, in such new birth. 
She knows that Lamp is still the Earth! 



16 



The Little Irish Gibl 

While Nora ironed all day long, 

Ruffling and fluting, folding fine, 
Upon her smiling lips a song 

Played as the wind plays in the vine. 

The air was soft, the sky was blue, 

Cool flowed the tide, the flowers were sweet,- 
"Thought she of happier things to do. 

Standing," I asked, "on those tired feet?" 

"Me grandmother, God rist her sowl! 

(A dacint body,) ma'am," she said, 
"Followed one night an eery owl 

That up and down the woodside led. 

"And, suddint like, upon a glade 

Beyont the bog, forninst the hill. 
She saw the Fairy Coort displayed, 

Drinkin' an' fastein' wid a will. ^ 

" 'Twas jewels like the twinklin' drops 

You see by star shine on the bog, 
They had, an' velvets like the tops 

Of grane moss on the fallen log* 



17 



*' ^Twas crowns an' plumes, an' scarfs o' gauze 
They had, 'twas crystal vase an' cup, 

'Twas honey of the hips and haws, 
An' bees' bread, for the bite an' sup. 

"Behint the thorn, through fleck an' froth, 

The bridles jangled on the horse, 
An' full on bit an' saddle-cloth 

The gowld was yellow as the gorse! 

*'They were the Fairy Folk, ochone. 
Frighted my grandmotlier a pause, 

A slip of a young thing alone, 
The dacint body that she was! 

"Ahl in a glitter was the quane, 

Big mot's there wor, an' flyin' flowers, 

About her, little min in grane, 

Pages like fireflies, ma'am, in showers. 

"Me grandmother, she gave a cry, 
The dear an' pretty colleen bawn. 

And in the shuttin' of your eye 
The little people ahl wor gone. 

*'Ahl, ma'am, exceptin' that strange owl, — 

And him, be just a looky chance, 
She clapped her ban's on, the big fowl, 

The same that lid her such a dance. 



18 



"Faith, "how he flapped and flopped his wings! 

An' fine for ahl his turns an' twists, 
For ahl his fluster an' his flings, 

She hilt him fast in her two fists. 

" *Lave go, ye spalpeen, lave me go! 

I am the Fairy Sentinel!' 
He cried. ^Before the cock shall crow 

I have to be at Dhira's Well! 

" 'Tis ill-look for the likes o' you, — 

The speckle 'ran that ye do be! 
To meddle wid the night- side crew — 

I'll cast ye in a spell ! ' says he. 

"He changed his chune. 'Oh, av ye choose 

To lave me go, cushla ma chree, 
I'll give ye what I'm like to lose, — 

I'll give ye Heart's Contint!' says he. 

"Then the swate crathur, carin' naught, 
Loosened her ban's, an' let him free. 

And off he flew. 'I never fought 
To kape ye, sor, indade,' said she. 

"An' hea^T^ o'er the bog, an' white. 

He fled foreninst the dark o' the wood; 

An' watchin' him intil the night 

Long, long, me small grandmother stood. 



19 



"An' home she wint. An' from that hour 
'Twas swate to plant, 'twas swate to dig; 

Betther than Innisfail's tall tower 
She hilt her shealin' an' her pig. 

"She had the smile for ahl that came, 
Where'er she stepped she made it bright, 

Whatever happened her that same 
Was, more betoken, what was right. 

"An' whin they laid her in her grave — 
Sure, into heaven straight she wint! 

She lift me ahl she had to lave. 

She lift me, ma'am, her Heart's Contint. 

"So though the sky be gray or blue," 
Said Nora, "light or long the stint, 

I do the thing I have to do 

Wid me grandmother's Heart's Contint!" 



20 



A Legend 

The little Christ-Child, with his tender feet, 
His dear white feet, came down the dusty way; 
Upon his lovely head the sunshine beat, 
And shards and flints along the hill-side lay 
Where other children kept their restless play; 
And no one noted that where'er he stept 
A tiny blood-red flower to blossom leapt. 

And on his little shoulders lay a pair 

Of fagots, whose loose withe had straightly 

slipped 
And let them fall athwart each other there. 
Low might the dove coo where the fig-tree 

dipped ; 
Soft be the shadows where the wild bee sipped; 
Far off the olive in the south-wind toss; — 
He bent beneath the likeness of a cross. 

And as he came, the children on tttfe road 
Forsook their play, with many a birdlike cry. 
And jeered him underneath his cruel load 
As if a malefactor should pass by. 
Some hill-born robber of the evil eye. 
Aghast with horror now, with bated breath, 
Bearing the twofold torment of his death. 



21 



And then the Christ-child, in that torrid place 
A^Tiere sunbeams smote like swords, cast off the 

wood, 
And, as the drops fell from his sweet grave face, 
A portent of the tree of bitter rood, 
He set it on the earth whereby he stood, 
And paused a moment, with a wildered look 
To break the heart, before his way he took. 

\Vhen, lo! a tremor struck the thing, a thrill 
Whirled up the withered stem in rosy flame. 
Green-garlanded and sweet it hung, until 
A sudden storm of bloom about it came. 
And as a flute might call the lads by name, 
Their sport aside the dear Child bade them toss, 
And rest beneath the shadow of his Cross. 



22 



A Promise 
[Zech. VIII.: 5] 

When I see at the floodtide of springtime 
The sky with high lustre brimming, 
xind the little white clouds of heaven 
On a happy west wind swimming; 
And in all the streets of the city, 
The morning about them delaying, 
The fulness of life in their being, 
The boys and girls singing and playing — 

Then I hear an old verse in the Bible, 
With its burden sweet and tender, 
Where the Lord had promised the prophet 
He would come again in his splendor; 
And as though no joy could surpass it. 
Exile and sorrow repaying, 
That then all the streets of the city 
Should be full of boys and girls playtng! 



23 



The King' s Dust 

Thou shalt die^ the priest said to the king, 
Thou shalt vanish like the leaves of spring, 
Like the dust of any common thing 
One day thou upon the winds shalt blow! 
Nay, not so^ the king said, I shall stay 
While the great sun in the sky makes day, 
Heaven and earth when I do pass aw^ay, 
In my tomb I wait till all things go. 

Then the king died. And with myrrh and nard, 
Washed with palm wine, swathed in linen hard, 
Bound in naptha-gum, and under guard 
Of his mighty tomb they laid the king. 
Century fled to century, still he lay 
Whole as when they laid him first away, — 
Sooth, the priest had nothing more to say. 
He, it seemed, the king, knew everything. 

One day armies with the tramp of doom 
Overthrew the huge blocks of the tomb. 
Arrowy sunbeams searched its chambered gloom, 
Bedouins camped about the sand-blown spot. 
Little Arabs, answering to their name, 
With a broken mummy fed the flame, 
Then a wind about the ashes came, 
Stirred them lightly, — and the king was not! 

24 



Little January 

Who is the pretty fellow knocking, knocking, 
Light as the tapping of the falling snow? 

And why this other one with haste unlocking 
The gate, in such a fluttering to go? 

He cannot wait to see his rosy cousin, 

Fur-wrapt, the snowflakes melting in his hair, 

The gayest one of all the dear gay dozen 
Who eagerly will cross the threshold there. 

Come in, come in, then, laughing little fellow! 

Quick ! shut the door ! the wind is blowing drear. 
Tis you, 'tis you, sweet lad, with locks of yellow. 

With ruddy countenance and look of cheer! 

The grass, the rose, the cherry, and the berry. 
Let others bring; the frolic in the grove. 

The bursting plum, the reddening leaf, the merry 
Music of hayfield-ride and swimming-cove. 



25 



But you bring sleds, and snow-forts, joyous crying 
From ice-boats sweeping on a straining sail. 

Bring rushing benders on the ice, bring flying 
On the toboggan like a comet's ^tail ! 

You bring the twilight bustle and glad scurry, 
Where silence follows all the happy din, 

To hear the story by the fire — 0, hurry, 

Dear Firstling of the year ! come in, come in ! 



26 



The Forerunner 

Heavily in his breast 

The mariner's heart was beating; 
Ever the course shaped west, 

Ever the land retreating. 

Mutiny muttering loud — 

Naught all his hoping, his dreaming- 
Suddenly out of a cloud 

Wings were flashing and streaming! 

Wings that told of the nest, 

Told of the bough and the blossom; 
Gave him the joy of his quest, 

Kindled the heart in his bosom. 

Promising land at last. 

Circling over and under, 
Fanning around his mast — 

What was the bird, I wonder? 

Nothing the Genoese cared 

Were it or osprey or swallow — 

The gray sea-waste was dared; 
Palm-fringe and shore must follow. 



27 



Oh, when bleak skies break up 

With winds the bluebird is whirled in, 
I drink from the selfsame cup 

The voyager pledged the world in! 

For some of his joy must be 

In the flash of the blithe new-comer, 
Whose wing discovers to me 

Whole continents of summer! 



m 



Our Maying 

bring my muff and mittens, Toots, 
The ones I have for sleighing, 

My thickest cloak, my stoutest boots, 
For we will go a-Maying! 

Where is my water-proof? oh dear, 
Goloshes — always straying ! 

Where's my umbrella? Do you hear? 
Now we will go a-Maying! 

And have the gargles ready. Get 
Hartshorn without delaying. 

And ipecac and boneset, 
When we come home from Maying! 



29 



A Fishing Trip 

What happy hours were those when Tom 
And I, some monstrous whale to win, 

Went fishing in the rocking-chair 
Off the piazza with a pin! 

Our sails were spread, our anchors weighed, 
We were the captain and the crew. 

Far out from land on chasing waves 
Before the gale we rocked and flew. 

Now schools of mackerel passed us by, 
Now dolphins came in rainbow flocks. 

Now, lifted on a distant wave, 

A strange mermaiden combed her locks. 

Cape Finisterre, and Baflin's Bay, 
And Crusoe's Isle, and Red Sea shores, 

We left behind, and saw ahead 

Van Diemen's Land and the Azores. 

We breakfasted in Behring Strait, 
And then, for the sweet sake erewhile 

Of Moses and the bulrushes^ 
We caught cmr dinner in the Nile. 



30 



Lit for some reasons that we had, 
Some memories of delightful scenes, 

t nighliall we a harbor made 
Always within the Phillipinesl 

'e boxed the compass as we pleased, 
The winds from every side were blown, 
eography, and time, and space, 
In that fine voyage were all our own. 

ometimcs the storms about us burst, 
And we went slipping round the deck, 

ometimes we rocked so near the edge 
We narrowly escaped a wreck. 

'ar off we saw the huge whale spout 

Just over the horizon's rim, 
Jut though we sailed, and sailed, and sailed. 

We never quite caught up with him. 

^nd never shall we steal from time 
Days half so glad as those wherein 

rVe fished in the old rocking-chair ** 

Off the piazza with a pin! 



31 



S M A ^ Folk 

Who is there doubts the legend 

That, on Midsummer's Day, 

They whose eyes are touched with chrysm 

See the fairies at their play — 

Early in the rosy morning, 

Late along the purple gloaming, 

On the meadow-side, or shorev/ard 

Riding foam-bows in the spray? 

See Peasblossom gaily tilting, 
With his wings shut on the stem — 
Are those butterflies about him 
Thinking he is one of them? 
See fair Cobweb threading dew-drops 
Up and down the wide red roses. 
Dancing on her thready and turning 
Every dew-drop to a gem! 

See them sliding down the sunbeams. 
All the merry horde and bold. 
In the tall St. Joseph lilies, 
Slyly lifting heads of gold. 
Swinging, singing, like the thrushes. 
Merry tipplers at their revels. 
With the toothsome horns of honey 
That the honeysuckles hold! 



32 



See their rings in great white moonshine, 
When the winds are up and away, 
Like a cloud of blowing leaflets. 
Like a mist-wreath, swirl and sway! 
Suddenly the midnight tolling 
Shuts the sight with sad enchantment. 
And the hollow air is empty 
Till the next Midsummer's Day. 



33 



Her Horoscope 

That spell-bound day, when she was born. 
The Signs' great mistress ruled the morn. 
And asked of the powers of earth and air 
What they would give to make her fair. 

*Skin like ray light/ said the moon, as she fled; 
^I'U hide in her hair,' the sunshine said; 
^Little white teeth like pearls,' said the sea; 
Said the morning star, *Leave her eyes to me.' 

Answered the godmother, taking those, 
*A11 very well, as far as it goes. 
But still she'll need a trifle or two. 
Our little maiden^ before she'll do.' 

'Well,' said the sea, 'if you must have more. 
Suppose some day I should fling to shore 
The vviJd free grace which far out and away 
Wave tosses to wave in sun and spray?' 

Sung the brook, as it babb"'ed over the stones, 
'You may put my music into her tones;' 
Sighed the wind, 'From her temple only drop 
One curl there I'll flutter and never stop.' 



34 



^Let me give her brow/ said the twilight sky, 
*I will fashion a forehead fair and high. 
Fit to shelter pure thoughts and sweet' — 
Said the earth, 'Let me make the way soft for her 
feet/ 

And the godmother, *Thank you, a thousand 

times ! 
Pleasant promises, tuneful as chimes — 
We wouldn't be grasping — but then these things 
Early or late will spread their wings.' 

*0h,' cried the deeps, 'Why didn't you say 
You wanted a winged spirit in clay? 
We can give her strength, till she mount and see 
The beauty and awe in infinity.' 

'Steadfast truth and sincerity,' 

Said the noonday blue, 'she shall have from me;^ 

'I will make her heart for every guest 

Warm with my sunset fires/ said the west. 

Then a landscape lapped in azure hsy^e 
Where the southwind blows on autumn days. 
Vowed on her future to employ 
The depth of sorrow, the breadth of joy. 

'I will wash her soul/ said the summer rain, 
'Free forever from soil and stain;' 

35 



^She shall have our innocence/ said the snows; 
*My freshness/ the dew on the wayside rose. 

*Wait/ whispered the heavily-clustered vine, 
'She must surely have a gift of mine! 
Spirit, or sweetness, or tendrils' clasp 
To those two little arms for a fervent grasp!' 

And at that^ the voices of every sprite 
Proffered their treasures in sheer delight. 
And no one could say who the givers were, 
So happy the tumult, so glad the stir! 

'I,' added at last the motherly earth, 
'Will make her the happiness of the hearth, 
And if ever, grown weary, my rest she crave. 
Some day the soft and forgetful grave/ 

'Hush!' said the godmother. 'Hush, I pray! 
Such a blunder on such a day! 
You always were an enormous clod — 
Keep such presents under the sod! 

'For she lives in the springtime, she moves in the 

sun, 
Smooth and bright shall her pathway run 
As ifj on the colors sacred and seven' — 
*It leads/ said her Guardian Angel, 'to Heaven!' 



36 



On the Fourth of July 

If in the Flowery Kingdom you had happened to 

be born, 
Enough of flowers you might have — and every 

flower a thorn; 
You would not, light as thistle-down, this Fourth 

of July morn, 
Dance round with your torpedoes and your mellow 

mimic horn; 
For you would be, poor little maid, unused to go 

alone, — 
A prisoner whose bandaged feet no liberty have 

known ! 

Oil, what is it floats above us, so dauntlessly on 

high, 
The sunset bars, the midnight stars, a glory in 

the sky! 
The winds are waiting on it, with rainbows, 

storms, and showers. 
And all the sunshine of the land pours through 
this flag of ours! ^ 

And if, a darling of the sun, you first had seen 

his ray 
Where far in burniDg heavens shine the snows 

of Himalay, 



37 



Where women waste their dreary lives and wear 
the time away 

In braiding jewels for their hair the livelong sum- 
mer day, 

Outdoors would be a fairy-land forbidden to your 
eye, 

The slave of the zenana, within its walls to die. 

And if you chanced to be the child of the Circas- 
sian hills, 

Where the flute-player as he goes his wild sweet 
music spills, 

One day the thought of wandering herds and 
leaping mountain rills 

With longing that is but despair across your 
memory thrills, — 

For the Turkish merchant lifts your veil and finds 
that you are fair; 

And you go to the slave-market and the fate that 
meets you there. 

And if where the Dark Continent its vast recesses 
hides. 

Where to lose itself in deserts the mighty river 
slides, 

Your home were in a wattled hut upon the jungle- 
sides — 

See! a naked warrior with his spear across the 
thicket glides, 

38 



And tears you from your mother's arms, and 

never heeds her wail. 
To sell with gold and ivory where the slave-ship 

drops her sail. 

Or even if you had been born a week's sail o'er 

the sea. 
In that green isle from which the snakes were one 

day forced to flee, 
More like than not this sorry day an exile you 

would be, 
Or turned out of your cabin in the bog to sleep, 

machree ; 
And you'd have no country of your own till you 

crossed wild leagues of foam, 
And church-steps in a foreign land would be your 

only home. 

But here you dance as light as if the wind's will 

were your own, 
Nor cramped your feet, nor dwarfed your soul 

where this bright flag is blo^! 
No merchant weighs that heart of yours, as heavy 

as a stone. 
With silks and shawls; no fetter cuts your white 

wrist to the bone; 
But to blossom and to bourgeon here you ate as 

free as flowers^ 



39 



While this cloud of blessing overhead distils its 
heavenly powers! 

Oh, what is it floats above us^ so dauntlessly on 

high, 
The sunset bars, the midnight stars, a glory in 

the sky! 
The winds are waiting on it^ with rainbow, 

storms, and showers. 
And all the sunshine of the land pours through 
this flag of ours! 



40 



Flag Song 

Out upon the four winds blow. 

Tell the world your story; 

Thrice in heart's blood dipped before 

They called your name "Old Glory!" 

Stream, "Old Glory/' bear your stars 

High among the seven; 

Stream a watch-fire on the dark, 

And make a sign in heaven! 

Mighty harvests gild your plains, 
Mighty rivers bear them, 
Everywhere you fly you bid 
All the hungry share them; 
Blooms the wilderness for you. 
Plenty follows after. 
Underneath your shadow go 
Peace and love and laughter. 

When from sky to sky you float, 
Far in wide savannas, 
Vast horizons lost in light 
Answer with hosannas. 
Symbol of unmeasured power, 
Blessed promise sealing, 
All your hills are hills of God, 
And all your founts are healing! 



41 



still to those the wronged of earth 

Sanctuary render; 

For hope and home and heaven they see 

Within your sacred splendor! 

Stream, "Old Glory," bear your stars 

High among the seven; 

Stream a watch-fire on the dark, 

And make a sign in heaven! 



42 



The Problem 

Were Cupid a philosopher, 

Were some sweet cherub capped and gowned 

In scholars' robes, it would not be 

Much stranger than it was to see 

Our Baby in her problem bound, 

Her doll forgot, her dear eyes wide. 

Lost in the great thought she had found. 

She knew not sages from of old 
That self-same thought had puzzled on, 
Asking a riddle none could spell, 
Seeking an answer none could tell. 
By night, by day, with faces wan, — 
Where is to-morrow coming from. 
And where 'tis yesterday has gone! 



43 



The Reason Why 

Swift as flakes fall in orchard-blow, 
The darling's kisses showered and sped; 
And buried in the peach and snow, 
The hugs, the smiles, the mother said, 
"I wonder why you love me so!" 

The darling made a moment's pause, 
Her sweet eyes wandering everywhere 
As if she questioned Heaven's great law^s. 
And then with the contented air 
Of knowing all, she said, ''Because!" 



44 



An Apparition 

She saw, one day^ a starry flower, 
Born of the pleasant year's late hour, 
Five-petalled, in the boulder's rift; 
And then, with many a snoAvy shower, 
A sudden storm swept down in power 
And buried it beneath the drift. 

She caught a melting flake of snow 
That vanished. And she cried, "I know 
The spirit of the flower was here, 
It perished in the storm, and oh, 
I think the flower was grieved to go, 
It left upon my hand a tear!" 



45 



Me 

Through many, many summers 

I lookj as through a glass, 

And see a world of showers and flowers. 

And laughing children pass, 

And in her big blue sun-bonnet 

One rosy little lass. 

A lass who watched the swallows, 
Skim just beyond her hand. 
And where the flickers fled and sped 
And nests of hang-birds fanned, 
And felt those birds were fairy-folk 
On wing to fairy-land. 

In her warm fist she carried, 

Trudging o'er hills and dales, 

In tiny papers laid, and weighed 

As if in fairy scales. 

The salt that catches bobolinks 

When sprinkled on their tails. 

A little lass and wistful. 

Who gazed up the blue sky. 

And reached for fairy things and wings 

In vain, and wondered why, — 

Poor little lass, I wonder still 

Could she be really I? 



46 



Love 

"Shall I give your love to your mother?" 

He said to the maid of three. 
For her mother had gone to a country 

Where presently he should be. 

What calm in the eyes of azure, 

What snow on the innocent brow, 

How sweet was that voice of slow music,- 
"My mother has my love now!'' 



47 



Under Gbeen Boughs 

I heard along the orchard. 

All in the bright spring weather, 

The pink and pretty people 
Whispering close together: 

"We're drawing royal juices 

From the happy earth's completeness, 
From the perfumed showers of summer 

And the spicy south wind's sweetness. 

"We're wizards of the moonlight 

Weaving charms with dewy plunder; 

And we're chemists of the sunshine 
Changing form and working wonder. 

"When all the leaves have reddened 
With streaks and peaks and dapples, 

Though folk may think us blossoms. 
They'll find we're really apples!" 



48 



One's Will 

One day a little wave — indeed he wasn't naughty, 
Though the others tried to hush and keep him 

still,— 
Said, ''You mustn't think that I'm quarrelsome 

or haughty, 
But I want to be a rainbow, and I will!" 

Then the sun came shining gladly, and the wind 

came blowing madly. 
And the little wave leaped up to catch the light; — 
And for half a glorious minute, with only sunshine 

in it, 
He flashed in seven colors on the sight! 

So when behind your task the harder ones come 

trooping, 
While the idle hours for only pleasure crave. 
And o'er the humdrum work your heavy head is 

drooping. 
Just bethink you of that rainbow and that wave! 



49 



Next the Head 
I 

Such a dear, but such a dunce, 

Was the rosy little lass. 
Perfectly content to be 

At the foot of her small class! 

Once we promised she should have 
Almost anything she would 

On the day when she could say 
She above the others stood. 

Naught she seemed to heed the wish. 
Loitering on the school-ward way, 

Never glancing in her book, 
All absorbed in endless play. 

Judge then our surprise at last, 
Each day slipping like a bead, 

When she carelessly remarked 
Next the head she stood, indeed. 

Next the head! Enough! Enough! 

She should choose that afternoon 
From the dolls that moved their eyes. 

Said 'mamma,' and sang a tune. 



60 



Who, it happened then, we asked 
In our scholar's class might be — 

the innocent blue eyes! 

"Rosy Grey," she said, "and me." 



Sorrows sore our little lass 
Felt each day in spelling class; 
Xever could she go above 
Rosy, or for gold or love. 

Though she studied might and main, 
Rosy twice as hard again 
Studied, and, the lesson said, 
Kept her old place at the head. 

But one day, at last, she came 
Running with her face aflame. 
She the Rubicon had passed. 
She was at the head at last! 

What delight! what pride! We said, 
"Are you really at the head?" 
"Yes, oh yes," she cried in glee, 
"Rosy stayed at home, you see!" 



61 



Thanks 

Sweet was the candj^-drop I gave, 
Sweet was the little maiden, too. 

Made out of rose-leaves certainly. 
With more or less of honey-dew. 

"What do you say?" her mother asked, 
Whispering the little lesson o'er, 

"I dess I say," the dear one piped. 
All silver soft, "Dot any more?" 



62 



Two Generations 

'*I want a bigger piece of pie!" 

The boy of long-ago contended. 
"It's real nice! You've given him 

Just twice as much! This pie is splendid! 

"That's a right-angle you gave him, 
And an acute to me, — how spiteful!" 

To-day's boy clamors. "For the pie, 

Though quite unwholesome, is delightful!" 



53 



What One Boy Thinks 

A stitcli is always dropping in the everlasting 

knitting, 
And the needles that I've threaded, no, you 

couldn't count to-day; 
And I've hunted for the glasses till I thought my 

head was splitting, 
When there upon her forehead as calm as clocks 

they lay. 

I've read to her till I was hoarse, the Psalms and 

the Epistles, 
When the other boys were burning tar-barrels 

down the street; 
And I've stayed and learned my verses when I 

heard their willow whistles. 
And I've staid and said my chapter with fire in 

both my feet. 

And I've had to walk beside her when she went 
to evening meeting, 

When I wanted to be racings to be kicking, to be 
off; 

And I've waited^ while she gave the folks a word 
or two of greeting, 

First on one foot and the other, and 'most stran- 
gled with a cough. 



54 



^*You can talk of Young America/^ I say, "till 

you are scarlet, 
It's Old America that has the inside of the 

track!" 
Then she raps me with her thimble and calls me 

a young varlet, 
And then she looks so woe-begone I have to take 

it back. 

But! There always is a peppermint or a penny 

in her pocket — 
There never was a pocket that was half so big 

and deep — 
And she lets the candle in my room burn 'way 

down to the socket. 
While she tews and putters ralmd about till I 

am sound asleep. 

There's always somebody at home when every one 

is scattering; 
She spreads the jam upon your bread in a way to 

make you grow; ^ 

She always takes a fellow's side when every one 

is battering; 
And when I tear my jacket I know just where to 

go! 



55 



And when IVe been in swimming after father said 

I shouldn't, 
And mother has her slipper off, according to the 

rule, 
It sounds as sweet as silver, the voice that says, 

"I wouldn't; 
The boy that won't go swimming such a day would 

be a fool!" 

Sometimes there's something in her voice as if 

she gave a blessing, 
And I look at her a moment and I keep still as a 

mouse — 
And who she is by this time there is no need of 

guessing, 
For there's nothing like a grandmother to have 

about the house! 



56 



Fern Seed 

Longing for such delightful play, 
She dropped her precious book, and mused 
On that strange fern-seed fairies used 
That they might pass, in the old day, 
Invisibly upon their way. 

She knew, of course, without a doubt. 
That fern-seed made a mortal so 
That he could come and he could go 
Invisible to all about. 
And no one ever find him out. 

What pleasure she would take, for one. 

That fern-seed found, she thought and sighed,- 

Curls in a tangle, shoes untied. 

The baby fretting for some fun. 

Lessons unlearned, and sums undone! 

What made her start then, who can tell. 
And think what pleasure she might take. 
Were there some fern- seed that could**make. 
By any sort of fairy spell. 
Our faults invisible as well? 



57 



A Bicycle Song 

Light upon the pedal, 

Firm upon the seat, 

Fortune's wheel in fetters 

Fast beneath our feet, 

Leave the clouds behind us, 

Split the wind we meet, 

Swift, oh swift and silent 

Rolling down the street! 

When the dark comes, twinkling 

Like fireflies in the wheat. 

Bells before us tinkling 

Fairily and feat, 

Slide like apparitions 

Where the dusk is sweet. 

Swift, oh swift and silent 

Rolling down the street! 

Horses in the desert 

Maybe fly as fleet. 

Northern lights in heaven, 

Sparkles on the sleet, 

Swift, oh swift and silent, 

Just before we meet 

The outer edge of nothing 

Turn rolling up the street! 



&8 



On the Tbolley 

The red is melting in the river, 
The red is dying in the sky. 
The evening star begins to quiver. 
Belated birds go darting by, 
Come, let us follow, follow, follow, 
And find how fine it is to fiy! 

By pine-woods where, when noon was sunny. 
The air with spicy balsams fiowed, 
By gardens full of sweets and honey. 
Where summer-long the rose has glowed. 
By weary wife and loitering lover. 
Come, fiash along the river-road. 

The forest wall across the river 
Darkens within the curling tide, 
The fragrant winds about us shiver. 
We rock, we race, we rush, we ride. 
Thrilled with the sweep of airy motion 
And glad because the world is wide! 

The night soars up the purple spaces. 
The whirling winds divide the deep, 
Strange gleams are on familiar places. 
Swift lightnings underneath us leap. 
As forward flying, flying, flying. 
Upon the thunderbolt we sweep! 



The Gingerbread Vine 

Oh, do you know, and do you know, 
The vine where risen doughnuts grow, 
And in a shower come tumbling down. 
All sugary and crisp and brown? 

And did you ever chance to taste 
The plum-cakes going there to waste? 
And reaching o'er the fence, perhaps 
A stem just strung with ginger-snaps? 

The house stands close beside the street; 
Around its roof the branches meet. 
If you look up, about your head 
Fall down great squares of gingerbread. 

Once when I went inside the door. 
Through the wide window to the floor 
A bough came bending all apart, 
And tossed me in a jelly tart. 

Whoever lives there, I must say. 
Though he is lame and old and gray. 
What a rare gardener and fine. 
And, oh, how happy with that vine! 



§0 



My mother says that very few 
Gingerbread-vines she ever knew, 
And none shook down^ it seems to her, 
Like this, an apple turnover. 

Some days it drops upon the ground, 
Soft, soft, a frosted heart and round, 
And sometimes, when the branches stir. 
Such cookies rain as never were. 

And you can guess — oh, you can guess — 

That if 'tis too far at recess^ 

Yet all the children, as a rule. 

Go slow there coming home from school. 



91 



The School Mistress 

She spoke in Latin, wrote in Greek, and knew 
the Hebrew points, 

She told the names of all the stars, and how their 
orbits ran. 

In his presence wired a skeleton together by the 
joints, 

"I do' no' about this 'ere/' said the school-com- 
mittee-man. 

She told him half the history of half the human 
race. 

And how the world had been if made on any other 
plan, 

'^You better stop jes' where you be — don't nohow 
fit the place, — 

You ain't no idee of grammar," said the school- 
committee-man. 



The Lazy Hour 

So bright are the branches, 

The shadows so cool. 

So dark is the water. 

So deep is the pool, 

So hard is the lesson. 

So hot is the school — 

If I were the son of a merman 

I never should hear of a rule! 

Light as the arrow 

Springs from the bow. 

Off the big ledges 

Down I should go. 

Into the hollow 

Whose secret I know. 

Up I should come like a bubble, 

Shake off the water and blow ! 

Now for a breast-stroke 

Under the tide. 

Arm o'er arm sweeping 

I float on my side, 

Deep in green crystal 

Slowly I slide — 

There goes the class up in Csesar 

I wish I'd a corner to hide! 



63 



The Bells of September 

Over the round earth comes swinging, 
Chiming and rhyming and strong, 

Something like wonderful singings 
Singing of wonderful song. 

From land to land now it goes beating, 
Beating from mountain to glen, 

From seacoast to prairie 'tis fleeting, 
From prairie to seacoast Eigain. 

Tlie little lad hears it, and straightway 
He tucks his book under his arm^ 

The little lass runs through the gateway 
To answer its joyous alarm. 

Out of the east it comes swimming, 
This sound like a wonderful song. 

With murmur of melody brimming, 
Hear it, ding-dong, now, ding-dong! 

Oh, what shall we have to remember. 
In the long days from New Year to Yule, 

So sweet as the bells of September, 
The world over, ringing in school! 



64 



The Fairy of Early Fall 

If on the path, without a word of warning, 
A web of lace, with silver meshes hoary 

And sparks of fire, lies any shining morning, 
What Fairy, you will ask^ has wrought this 
glory? 

Is that the old elm tossing like a fountain 
Its golden shower against the blue of heaven? 

Is that the forest stretching up the mountain. 
Or some great rainbow with the colors seven? 

And where the clematis had climbed the cedar. 
Is that indeed the very Witch of Endor? 

And has there been no eye at all to heed her 
Turning the dogwood's poison into splendor? 

W^hose are the dripping fingers that have done it, 

Painted the maple-leaf a scarlet wonder, 
Who pinched the plum and breathed the bloom 

upon it. 
And burst the chestnut's chrysalis asunder? 

Who is it, wrapped in violet veils and gauzes, 
To see this world that late was all so sober, 

In midmost of her magic turns and pauses? 
I think the Fairy's name must be October. 



65 



In Nutting Time 

Rollicking^ frolicking, 
Up the hill, 
Chattering, clattering. 
Nobody still, 
Clipping and slipping, 
Fast and slow. 
Hustling and bustling 
To and fro. 
Into the nut-glades 
See them go! 
Battering, scattering, 
Big burs down, 
Rambling, scrambling, — 
Nuts are brown, — 
Flurrying, worrying, 
Clouds are low, — 
Curling and swirling. 
Wild winds blow, — 
Out of the nut-glades, 
See them go! 
Whisking and frisking. 
Jacket and gown, 
Trippingly, skippingly. 
Never a frown. 
Hurrying, scurrying, 
Back to town! 



C6 



Puss 

The hero of a hundred fights. 
He bore his scars about of nights, 
Reproaches to those luckless wights 
Who had not fought a hundred fights. 

His great green eyes alarmed his foes 
With splendor; curdling blood they froze 
With their live emeralds, when he rose 
And laid about him mighty blows. 

O'er his war-harness, grim and dire, 
A mantle worth a captain's hire 
He trailed; and in his dreadful ire 
Its very fur struck sparks of fire. 

He went on raids throughout the land; 
He dared the cats on every hand 
Up to the scratch. The craven band 
Bit dust before his champion brand. 

What rat but quaked when he *rew near? 
What caitiff mouse refused him cheer? 
What clarion-call could give him fear 
Who cut the comb of chanticleer? 



67 



His battle-cry's resounding din 
Taught music to the violin; 
And, to wind-shaken harp-strings kin, 
His purr the listening ear would win. 

He was a knight without a flaw; 
In him both court and camp one saw; 
For, bowing to the fireside law, 
What other ever gave his paw? 

But, jealous of his wide renown. 
Fate sent a monster thundering down. 
As erst some dragon raised his crown. 
Beleaguering an ancient town. 

Its solid tread shook all the ground; 
It scattered flames of fury round; 
Puss felt the heart within him bound 
To measure swords with this Mahound. 

He gazed. He sprang with valor hot — 
Turn, turn! — nor view the fated spot! 
For what was Puss? Oh, fearful lot! 
A twisted tail, some hair, a blot! 



G8 



The Solemn Truth 

Said Phosphor unto Lucifer — those cats of high 

degree ! 
Phosphor, the saflfron-tinted, just a golden fleece 

was he. 
And when he sighed in reverie you really would 

declare 
That he was full of fiddle-strings which played 

some cat-land air; 
And Lucifer, that lordly cat, was black as blackest 

night, 
With eyes like yellow jewels, great gleaming 

balls of light. 
A Greek was Phosphor, scholars thought who 

chanced to hear him mew,' 
But Lucifer knew Latin, and, they said, black 

magic, too! — 
Said Phosphor then to Lucifer: "It really would 

appear 
Cats are the most important things upon this 

mundane sphere. 
Look at the way that we are lodged, and all this 

loving fuss; 
There is no doubt this house is kept for us, and 

only us. 



69 



This is our drawing-room; these chairs, these 

lounges low and soft. 
We've slept in every one of them full many a time 

and oft. 
These paintings, these old chinas, this glass, these 

flowers, these books. 
They make the place agreeable about our cozy 

nooks. 
The rug upon the hearth is ours, for us the fire 

burns red. 
And we have the kindest gentleman to wait on 

us to bed. 
The silver in the buffet shines to stir our loving- 
cup, 
The .table laid, the pretty maid cutting our tidbits 

up, 
For Jane and Katy only live to serve us it would 

seem, 
And Michael only milks the cows to bring our 

daily cream. 
The peacock, whose great purple sail the garden 

walk illumes. 
Was surely hatched for us to pounce and play 

about his plumes; 
And that garden, with its vases, too, and over- 
flowing flowers 
That keep the catnip company (which certainly 

is ours) — 



70 



To say that it was made at all for any one but 

us. 
With all its cherry-trees and birds, would be 

preposterous. 
While these ladies^ who about us shower so lavish 

a caress, 
They are our dames-in-waiting, and we their 

happiness. 
And sometimes in the twilight when the strain of 

some old song 
Miss Fanny plays, or Katharine whirls the spin- 
ning song' along. 
And the mouse is singing in the wall, and the 

winds upon their flight, 
I think that maybe music was just made "for our 

delight." 
Said Phosphor unto Lucifer, "Now don't you think 

I'm right?" 

And he, that silent knight-at-arms, in league with 

unknown things, 
To whom the salamander in the coals strange 

secrets sings. 
The fluorescence of whose eyes once awed Egyptian 

kings, 
That ^vild shy sprite round whom a cloak of 

wizard mystery clings, 



n 



That has familiars in the night as far as Saturn's 

rings, 
That creature of such mighty springs you might 

believe that he had wings. 
That prince of all the powers of air, that shining 

Lucifer, 
That black-silk-satin-velvet cat just winked, and 

answered, "Purr!" 



72 



The Malison 

There were not in our English tongue 
Words quite half bad enough to say 

What feelings swelled in Hugo's heart 
Toward Mabel on that dreadful day. 

The books of that scholastic house 
Fluttered their pages, all awake; 

The black tide in the inkstands stood 
Trembling before the storm should break. 

To see the angry cherub then. 
With fallen pen the father turned, 

Murmuring the old surprise that such 
Wrath in celestial bosoms burned. 

All the air listened; dark the room 
As if before some gypsy's curse; 

While Hugo wildly, swiftly sought 
Which malediction was the worse. 

The dimples deepening into frowns^ 
Fire flashing from those eyes of blue. 

Clinching both little fists, he cried, 
"Oh, you — ^you — ^you had grammar, you!'' 



T8 



The Child that Gave Tbouble 

A tease for a kiss, for a story, a song, 

You must maJ^e her a doll, you must blow her a 

bubble, 
She was under your heels almost all the day long, 
She was climbing and falling, and bumping and 

bawling, 
And crying and calling, the child that gave 

trouble. 

She was sliding down-stairs with a shout and a 

shock. 
Flying all ways at once till you thought you saw 

double, 
She was filling the vase, she was winding the 

clock, 
She was slopping and slipping, and running and 

skipping, 
And dancing and tripping, the child that gave 

trouble. 

If the water was running, the bath-room afloat. 
If the fence was afire, and was burning like stub- 
ble, 
If the rope had been cut of the leaky old boat. 



74 



That down- stream was trailing with weeping and 

wailing, 
You knew without failing 'twas the child that 

gave trouble. 

That was she if the croup gave a gasp in the 
night, 

It was hers if a forehead was bruised on the rub- 
ble, 

It was hersj too^ the clamor that filled you with 
fright, 

And she talked till you maddened, and cried till 
you saddened 

And laughed till you gladdened, the child that 
gave trouble. 

How still is the house now, how darkling the 

hearth, 
what is our joy for that breaks like a bubble! 
Ts there pleasure or music so sweet on the earth 
As the voice that once gushed so, the face that once 

flushed so. 
The child that we hushed so^ the child that gave 

trouble ! 



75 



Her Wings 

What made any of us love her^ who can say? 
Just a piece of winsome mischief all the day, 
Flittering, fluttering, like a rose-leaf here and 

there, 
Reedy voice, and tangled sunshine in her hair. 

One day, when her sins were many — of their 

kind — 
Clambering down the well, fairyland to find, 
Tossing, for a lesson, puss into the brier. 
Mocking the sweet mocking-bird an octave higher, 

On her dimpled shoulder then I laid a hand, 
"Angels up in Heaven have wings, you understand. 
But," I saidj "we have to start them here, you 

know; 
Isn't it quite time that your wings began to 

grow? 

"They grow best when we live as the angels do, 

Loving duty, loving everybody, too; 

You're so tall now — ^yes, indeed — if you had 

wings. 
They would start just here^ I think, the lovely 

things!" 



Then I took that hand of hers and passed it down 
Where the little shoulder-blade escaped the gown, 
"Let me see — why, what is this? Now you don't 

believe — 
Can a wing have started just behind your sleeve?" 

Stretching back and feeling, with many a grim- 
ace — 
What a gladsome wonder settled on her face! 
"Will they be like real angel's wings?" she said, 
"Reaching to my feet and up above my head?" 

"Real angel wings, when grown, will your wings 

be!" 
Circling as a bird does, full of whistling glee, 
"Oh! my wings are growing!" she sang as off she 

flew ; 
"I will love the neighbors just as I love you!" 

But how often after that I had to say 
Whether everything was going the right way, 
"Really," said I, "don't you think they've grown, 

yourself ?" 
"Oh, I've tried to be so good!" replied the elf. 



77 



Then we questioned of their color when complete, 
Those great plumes that stretched along from 

head to feet; 
Should they be the tint of violet's purple grain 
Where the sunshine through them takes a royal 

stain ? 

Should they be a yellow, like the primrose bloom 
Opening with the evening star in twilight gloom? 
Azure, like the baby's eyes in morning glow? 
"Oh, the sky's so blue," she said, "they wouldn't 
show!" 

"Mine," said I^ at last^ "shall be a flush of rose 
Burning at the very ends to dazzling snows." 
"Mine shall be/' she said^ "when in Heaven I 

wake. 
Just the color that it pleases God to make." 

i 

What a heart-break haunts remembrance of that 

day! 
Ah, what idle words, those colors and that play! 
Silver gray as doves, or white beyond the moon, 
I had not dreamed that she would wear those 

wings so soon! 



78 



The Witch-Dance 

When from the underworld the light 

Shot through tli£ dead and flying leaves 

I saw a witch-dance, where the corn 

Stood stacked in half a hundred sheaves. 

Their tatters streaming on the wind, 

They bowed, they bent, they turned, they tost; 
They trembled with an aguish chill. 

Withered and shrivelled in the frost. 

Nodding in rhythmic time and tune, 

What unsung staves perchance they heard, 

What strange phrase muttered, all the while 
With wild and silent laughter stirred! 



'o- 



When happily a hurrying troop. 
As if one wound some fairy horn. 

Out of the shadow rose^ and then 

Went dancing with the stooks of corn. 

Each little figure waved her scarf, ** 

A score of airy fairy flags; 
Each corn-stook curtsied, turn by turn, 

Rustling her old and silken rags. 



79 



They capered here, they capered there, 

Balanced to partners, tripped and twirled. 

Now stately as a saraband. 

Xow a mad tarantella whirled. 

So dark, so weird, so mocking these. 
Things out of eld, — so sweet, so dear, 

So innocent, the fairy folk. 

One shivered half to see them near! 

When suddenly the last light fell, 

A sad wind moaned through sighing sheaves, 
The witch-dance vanished, — homeward came 

The children scuffling through the leaves. 



80 



The Land of Story Books 

The moment she blows out the light. 
And all is dark and cool about. 
And through the window quickly peers 
A great star sparkling in and out, 
By foaming brooks and mossy nooks, 
I find the land of Story Books. 

Blowing his horn, I hear Boy Blue, 
With Bobby Shafto go to sea, 
Taste of Jack Horner's pie, and dance 
O'er London Bridge with Lady Lee, 
With Jack and Jill go up the hill. 
While wandering at my pleasant will. 

I tremble with Red Riding Hood, 

I dance with Cinderella there, 

And from the silver basin sip 

With Beauty and the little bear. 

I visit Kings and courts and things 

With seven-league boots as good as wings. 

Harry and Lucy go with me, 
Rollo, and boys and girls a troop, 
Sindbad the Sailor follows us 
When in Aladdin's cave we stoop, 
And, sometimes then we, little men. 
See dear Hans Christian Andersen. 



81 



Sweet princesses in lonely towers 
We rescue, and huge dragons pass, 
Through many a maze of marvels go 
With Alice in the Looking Glass, 
With Mowgli keep the jungle deep, 
With Toomai through the forest sweep. 

And sinking into downy clouds 
Strange seems the Pilgrim going by 
With Great Heart, strange seems Crusoe's face. 
And strange the Land of Nod should lie 
With hushing brooks and pillowed nooks 
So near the land of Story Books. 



82 



The Thanksgiving Tree 

Of all the lovely trees that grow, 
The Christmas tree's the best, you know; 
But next to that, you must agree, 
Comes really the Thanksgiving tree. 
You never heard of it? Why, dear, 
It spreads its branches every year, 
And it must have a mighty root 
To bear such quantities of fruit. 

What sort of fruit? Why, crisp and brown, 
It sends a fine roast turkey down — 
Wish-bone for me, drumstick for you — 
And raisins in the stuffing, too! 
And ducks, with jelly, cuddled close 
In parsley; and along with those, 
A ham all stuck with cloves, and, high 
With flaky crust, a chicken-pie. 

And then all sorts of other things, 
A garden full, the great tree brings — 
Sweet cider, barbary-jam that quakes 
Like melted rubies till it breaks; 
And celery, 'most as good, I guess, 
As manna in the wilderness; 
And Chili sauce and pickled limes, 
That we can't have at other times. 



83 



But grandma says, "Take all you will; 
There's one day you shall have your fill." 

And apple-pies, and squash, and mince — 
The citron cut as thick as quince — 
And plums as big as plums can be, 
Grow on this good Thanksgiving tree; 
And oranges that last a week; 
Pears, red and yellow on the cheek; 
And where the lower branches lean. 
You'll find each nut a philopene. 
And better still, this tree bears cousins 
You never heard of by the dozens, 
And aunts and uncles; blindman's-buflf — 
I tell you v/hat, it bears enough! 
And next day, after all the toil, 
It usually bears castor-oil. 

It's strange that you should never know 
How such a wonder came to grow! 
Planted in younger soil, indeed, 
It sprung from the old roof -tree seed; 
And though it flourishes the best 
In this great region of the West, 
Yet one much like it over- sea 
They call the Old Mahogany Tree. 



84 



A Strange Country 

I wonder what the children do, in those old 

countries far away, 
Where, let them have what else they will they 

never have Thanksgiving Day! 
Have they no green goose over there, no sage, nor 

thyme, that you can learn, 
No chickens in a fricassee, no ducks just roasted 

to a turn? 

Have they, poor things, no cranberry swamp, no 

celery-trench, no pumpkin-vine. 
Nothing for tart or turnover, nor just one sip 

of currant wine? 
No pudding, in its blue flames wrapped, to fill 

them with delightful fear, 
No raisin-bunches, no white grapes, none of the 

good things we have here? 

Have they no grandmammas, indeed, with all 

these dainties on the shelf. 
To welcome them in that old home** where mother 

likes to go herself? 
No great brown garret full of glooms, to peer 

around w^ith half -scared joy, 
With shadows in the corners still of father when 

he was a boy? 



85 



Morning at meeting, after dark oysters to roast 

and nuts to crack, — 
Here we should think the world had stopped if 

the great day did not come back! 
With nothing to be thankful for, is there no 

heaven up that way? 
What a strange country it must be where there 

is no Thanksgiving Day! 



86 



In Icy We atheb 

There's a pleasant sound of bell-tones, gently 

growing, far oflF flowing. 
Of rain upon the roof, like the pattering feet of 

mice; 
Of harp-strings in the casement where the wind 

is lightly blowing — 
But there's no such music anywhere as the skates 

make on the ice! 

A-ringing and a-singing while you're heeling, 

while you're wheeling, 
A-humming and a-thrumming and a-drumming 

in a trice; 
A-chinking and a-clinking when the outer roll 

you're reeling; 
Oh, there's no such music anywhere as the skates 

make on the ice! 

A-chiming and a-rhyming, one stroke springing, 

one stroke swinging, 
A-jangling and a-twangling, whirling, twirling, 

twice and thrice, 
A-chaffing and a -laughing all along your airy 

winging,-— 
Oh, there's no such music anywhere as the skates 

make on the ice! 



87 



The Snow Flurry 

Dazzle of airy nothings 
Drifting in wind-blown showers, 
Pendulous fine prefigure. 
Dance of the unborn flowers, 
Flying, frolicking, falling. 
Whirling afar and near. 
Tossed on the pane and melting 
Into a broken tear^ 
The sombre fir-tree wreathing, 
Gone in a hurrying breath. 
Kissing the lip and swiftly 
Passing to vaporous death; 
Only a dazzle of nothings 
Lost in ethereal play, — 
But crystalline, radiant, stellar, — 
The worlds are made that way! 



88 



Jo's Toboggan 

Wait a moment; careful — steady — 
Take your breath. All right? 

Good-by, earth and trudging people, 
We are off for flight! 

Hearts, for half a slipping second 

Sunk in chill and fear. 
Kindle with the joy of fleetness, 

Answer cheer with cheer! 

See the hillside falling from us — 

Up in a balloon! 
See slide down the sky beside us 

The little yellow moon I 

If the earth had any edges 

We should soon be there. 
Cold and sweet and dark and headlong 

Bounding through the air! 

All alive the winds go by us, ** 

Whistling wild and far; 
Tell me, now, is this a comet 

Or a shooting-star? 



S9 



The Yule-Log's Song 

High in the mountains where we went 
To have our Christmas among the snows, 
The far white slopes stretched up the sky- 
Where the young moon sank and the great stars 

rose; 
And with every gust of the long slow wind 
The forests of fir from root to crown 
Made murmuring music, and softly shook 
A cloud of sifted silver down. 
But round the hearth of the room within. 
Like the cherub throng of some heavenly choir, 
The children clustered, and held their breath 
While their father lighted the yule-log fire. 

The little flames crackled and crisped and curled. 
And sweet were the cries from the happy crew, 
As higher and higher the blue smoke twirled. 
And then what a blaze the great log threw. 
What a glory swept up the chimney shaft. 
And vanished into the vast night-blue! 
And the rafters started out of the gloom 
With all their festooning apple-strings. 
With the silver skin of their onion- stalks^ 
Their crook-necked squash, and their herby 

things. 
And the gleam glanced high on the powder-horn, 
And the king's-arm flung back a startled light, 

90 



And the face of the clock was like the moon 
Red in the mists of the August night. 
While all the depth of the dusky room 
Was full of the firelight's blush and bloom. 

The grandame's hair like the aureole 
Of any saint in a picture showed 
And a wreath of roses about her there 
The frolicking children's faces glowed. 
Thank God for Christmas!" the father said, 
And the mother, dropping her needles, turned, 
"Thank God for Christmas^ for roof, for fire!" 
She answered him, and the yule-log burned. 

On roared the billowy flames; the sparks 
In shining showers up the darkjiess whirled; 
And the sap on the great ends stood like beads. 
And bubbled and simmered and hummed and 

purled. 
And its thin note quavered and swelled and sighed 
And tuned and twittered and rippled along. 
"The worm is dying," the children cried, 
"Oh, hush!" said the grandame; "^ou do it 

wrong, — " 
And they bent to listen, all eager-eyed, — 
"Hush, 'tis the yule-log singing his song!" 
And the place with a sudden warble rang. 
And this is the song the yule-log sang: 



91 



"Far in forest glades I grew, 
Fed on draughts of noontide dew; 
Passed the spotted snake's low lair, 
Passed the browsing of the bear, 
Fresher branches thrust each year, 
Passed the antler of the deer. 
Till space and sun and solitude 
Made me king of all the wood. 

"Then, my lower branches laid 
In a mighty depth of shade. 
Glad my tops the sun descried 
Coursing up the great earth's side. 
Knew the cloud's phantasmal forms. 
Wrestled with a thousand storms. 
Proudly bore victorious scars. 
And measured lances with the stars! 

"Twice a hundred years the snow 
Her white and glimmering veils did throw 
Round me; moonbeams touched my spires 
With a light of frosty fires; 
Knee- deep in the summer fern 
Twice a hundred years return, 
And into leaf my full plumes burst 
Green as when they bourgeoned first. 



92 



"Spices of the sun-soaked wood 
Rose about me where I stood; 
Gums their richest resin cast 
On every wind that wandered past; 
Blossoms shed their petals sweet 
In balmy drifts about my feet; 
Berried fragrance filled the gloom, 
And the wild grape's ambrosial bloom. 

"Here the bee went blundering by 
Honey-drunk, the butterfly 
Flittered, — ah, what songs I heard 
Shrilling from the building bird! 
How all little life did house 
Securely in my sheltering boughs 
That drew the green walls close when there 
The great hawk hung in upper air! 

"Still the dawUj the star-flame old, 
That steeped me through and through, I hold, 
The gladness wrought in every root 
While the wood-thrush blew his flute. 
And music ordering all my art 
With sorrow fit to break the heart 
When the summer night was still 
And far off mourned the whippoorwill. 



d3 



"iS^ow, my wealth of centuried hours,- 
Memory of summer showers. 
Bloom and song and leaf and wing — 
Upon this yule-tide hearth I fling. 
All the life that filled my year 
I give back to the Giver here, 
Burning gladly in His name 
The hoarded sunshine of my flame!" 



And the children listened, but all was still; 

A core of heat was the yule-log's heart. 

And into the ashes the live coals dropped 

Like rubies that flash and break apart; 

And the shadows skimmed up the darkening wall, 

And the wind brought a clamor of music near. 

And the stars themselves bent down to hear, 

While out in the valley far below 

The peal of the Christmas-bells rang clear. 



94 



A Christmas Story 

Around the hearth, just after dark, 
The sailor's little children cluster, 

Looking far up the chimney flue. 

Where great clouds stream and great winds 
bluster. 

This is the night when overhead, 

His reindeer prancing, bounding, neighing, 

Loaded with toys, St. Nicholas 

Across the frosty sky goes sleighing. 

And bent to catch him as he flees 
Just o'er the chimney-top careering, 

And beg of him the thing they wish. 
The children eagerly are peeriiig. 

For black with night and bright with foam 
The winds and waters wildly wrestle. 

And like white wings of birds their thoughts 
Go fluttering round their father's vessel. 

And they would have the good saint haste 

Where mighty seas are shouldering, pressing, 

And, while their father keeps the deck. 

Shower down on him some choicest blessing. 



95 



In that old sea-blown house where waits 
From dawn till dark a patient mother, 

The father's cheer upon the sea 
Is gift enough, they ask no other. 

Now, in their fancy, up the flue, 

They hear far off the sleigh-bells jingle — 
Now downcast and dispirited. 

They only see stars swarm and tingle. 

When suddenly the door flies wide^ 

A rush of snowy air blows o'er them — 

Is it the good St. Nicholas? 

Is it their father stands before them? 

Wrapped in his strong and tender arms 
They listen to the wild sea-story. 

The black cat slumbers on the hearth, 
The fire burns soft, the ash falls hoary. 

They hardly hear the Christmas bells. 
The breath upon their lips suspended, 

They see the fight with storm and wreck, 
No hero's deeds a whit more splendid! 

The mother smiling on them all. 
The father turning fear to folly — 

In any palace of the land 

Can Christmas eve be half so jolly? 

96 



Christmas Cheer 

Three hundred years ago or so, 
The best that could be had for gold, 
To set before a queen herself. 
Might make a carving knife run cold: 
A peacock stripped and roasted! Then 
Served i'^ its feathered skin and crest, 
And glorious in the amethyst. 
Emerald and sapphire of its breast; 
With curving throat of azure lights, 
And in its gilded beak a flame, 
Held high by some fair lady's handr. 
On a great silver dish it came. 

And Cleopatra's purple sail 
Was duller than that streaming tail. 
For my part, when the bird was fit, 
I wonder how she lifted it! 

Talk of the good old times! Just think 
Of all the feathers and the fuss! 
The times we have are best of all, — 
The best is good enough for us! 
Look at this Phoenix, crackling hot, 
The stem of parsley on its breast; 



97 



From last year's ashes here again, — 
And never mind the peacock's crest! 
What will I have? An outside bit 
Whose praises epicures may sing, 
The wish-bone, thank you, or perhaps 
The luscious picking of a wing. 

Come, let a royal feast begin 
When mother brings the turkey in, 
For all their crests and peacocks, too, 
I wouldn't change with them, would you? 



A Chbistmas Lullaby 

Sleep, dear, sleep, where nothing ill is, 

Let no joy-bells, ringing in the morrow, 

Give your happy dreams a thought's surcease. 

Screened from all the world of wrong and sorrow 

By the lilies 

Of your purity and peace. 

Sleep, and only hear in dreaming 

Far-off music, beating, fleeting, — • 

Never lullaby so sweet and blest, — 

Christmas-bells the heavenly song repeating. 

Softly seeming 

Angels singing you to deeper rest. 

Sleep, love, while the gracious story 

Of another child the bells are telling 

Whose dear hand is holding yours to-night, 

The sweet Christ-child bending from the dwelling 

Where His glory 

Fills the heavens themselves with tender light. 

Sleep, — the Christ-child keeps the skies above you, 

Stills the song upon your dream intruding, 

Folds around you slumber's silent fleece, 

Fills the mother-heart about you brooding. 

So doth love you, 

That he lends his purity and peace. 



99 



LtfC. 



The Fossil Raindrops 

Over the quarry the children went rambling, 

Hunting for stones to skip. 
Into the clefts and the crevices scrambling, 

Searching the quarrymen's chip. 

Sweet were their voices and gay was their 
laughter, 

That holiday afternoon. 
One tumbled down and the rest tumbled after, 

All of them singing one tune. 

Here was a stone would skip like a bubble. 
Once were it loosed from its place, — 

See what strange lines, ail aslant, all a-trouble. 
Covered over its face. 

Half for a moment their wonder is smitten, 

Nor divine they at all 
That soft earth it was when those slant lines 
were written 

By the rain's gusty fall. 



100 



Nor guess they, while pausing to look at it 
plainly, 

The least in the world perplexed, 
That the page which old Merlin studied vainly 

Had never such wizard text. 

Only a stone o'er the placid pool throwing, 

Ah But it told them, though, 

Hovv^ the rain was falling, the wind was blowing, 

Ten thousand years ago ! 



101 



Wings 

"Oh, I am dying, dying!" said the worm. 

"I feel thick darkness closing o'er my eye; 
All things fall from me with my breaking sheath, 

Good-by, sweet leaf! Oh, dear, green world, 
good-by." 

Then the dull mask that had enclosed him fell 
Still further. Oh, what lofty space, what light ! 

And, all about, what happy hovering things 
Like blossom petals that had taken flight! 

And fluttering stretching on the air he spread 
Great gauzy wings that let the sunshine 
through ; 

Forgot that he had ever been a worm. 

And far off in the strange new depths he flew. 



102 



BiBDs AND Bonnets 

Last year I heard the yellow-bird 
Whirr and whistle, warble, whistle, 
Swinging, clinging, always singing, 
Singing on his purple thistle. 
Last year I saw the yellow-bird,. 
All black and gold, a flame of fire. 
Dart up and down o'er brake and brier 
And catch his spray and flute and whistle, 
Singing, clinging, always singing, 
Swinging on his purple thistle. 

When skies were dull, I saw the gull 

Soaring, sailing, swirling, sailing, 

Skimming, swimming, where the brimming, 

Brimming wave made stormy wailing. 

Last year I saw the shining gull. 

Half wing, half wave, flash through the foam, 

And gray and silver up the dome 

Of gray and silver skies go sailing. 

Skimming, swimming, where the bl*imming. 

Brimming wave made stormy wailing. 

Last year, methinks, the bobolinks 

Nestled gladly, hovered gladly. 

Doubling, troubling, always bubbling, 

Bubbling, rapturously, madly. 

Last year* methinks, the bobolink? 



103 



Filled the low fields with vagrant tune, 
The sweetest songs of sweetest June — 
Wild spurts of frolic, always gladly, 
Bubbling, doubling, brightly troubling. 
Bubbling rapturously, madly. 

And last year, too, the blue-bird flew — 

What had April been without him! 

Winging, springing, always flinging, 

Flinging music all about him. 

A bit of heaven itself he flew 

When earth seemed heaven with bees, and bloom, 

Southwind, and sunshine, and perfume, 

And morning were not morn without him. 

Winging, springing, always flinging, 

Flinging music all about him. 

Were it last year, I still might hear 
Veery, blackbird, pipe together. 
Trilling, shrilling, song-bursts spilling. 
Spilling song in every weather. 
Still I the whippoorwill might hear 
Flown o'er dark woods and lonesome lakes. 
And hush! the thrush, from covert breaks, 
A white soul and the dusk together. 
Trilling, thrilling, song-bursts spilling, 
Spilling song in every weather. 



104 



But no birds now stir any bough — 

Bent and darkling, blown and darkling — 

Waking, waking, wet wings shaking, 

Shaking stars and dews to sparkling. 

From no green depths, from no green bough, 

Half in doubt, and half in dreaming, 

Shall I hear the bird-song streaming. 

With wings and cries and star-beams darkling, 

Waking morn itself, and breaking. 

Breaking, into rosy sparkling. 

And shall June be as fair to me. 
Gone the singing, hushed the singing. 
Brightness, slightness, darting lightness, 
Lightness gone and no woods ringing? 
Shall songless June be sweet to me? 
Shall silent morn and tuneless night? 
And skies with no wings' arrowy flight? 
The opening rose and no bird singing? 
Brightness, slightness, darting lightness, 
Lightness gone and no woods ringing? 

Who robbed my June of all its tune, 
Nests a-twitter, wings a-flitter? 
Killing, chilling, who was willing. 
Willing June should be so bitter? 
Who has a soul so out of tune 
With busy joy, and glancing flight. 
And lore, and song, and life, and light, 



With nests a- twitter, wings a-flitter? 
Killing, chilling, who was willing, 
Willing June should be so bitter? 

Lo, the maiden, trophy-laden! 
Sheen and color^ life and color. 
Ended, so the maid be splendid! 
Splendid she though woods be duller. 
She with swift and swallow laden, 
And things that once were winged words 
Of music, vibrant humming-birds 
In mail of rubies — sheen and color 
Ended, so the maid be splendid! 
Splendid she though woods be duller! 

Though fair the face and laughing grace 
With wing of tern or plume of plover, 
Yet rarer, fairer, should the wearer 
Fairer mercy once discover! 
No charm for me attends that face, 
I see no beauty round that head — 
I see the blood-stains harsh and red! 
Sorrow and silence round her hover! 
And rarer, fairer, were the wearer 
Unbanned by every wild- wood lover! 



106 



In an Old Garden 

Come down to that old garden 

Of every flower we knew 

When out of gates of childhood 

The airs of morning blew. 

And arching heaven was painted 

In every drop of dew. 

And you may have the lily 
With all her virgin snows, 
And you may have the beauty 
That blushes on the rose. 
But I will have the heartsease — 
The dearest flower that blows! 

Who will shall have the balsams 

And store of hydromel, 

The purple of the monkshood 

With poison in his spell, 

Who will shall have Sweet William 

And the Canterbury Bell. ^ 



107 



I love the breath of rosemary. 

The perfume of the stock, 

The proud plumes of the fleur-de-lis, 

The silken hollyhock, 

I love the flaming poppy 

And the sleepy four o'clock. 

But they say that when great angels 
Fell plunging from Heaven's frown, 
A spirit looking after 
Lost a blossom from her crown, — 
I know it was the heartsease 
Came softly floating down. 

bright the honeysuckle. 
And sweet his tippling crew, 
The bird-wings of the columbine, 
The larkspur blue as blue — 
But I will take the heartsease 
And all the rest take you! 



108 



THE ARCADIAN LIBRARY 



16 mo. antique boards, vellum labels J51.25 
full morocco, full gilt ^52. 50 



THE WATCHERS OF THE HEARTH 

By Benjamin Sledd 

THE GREAT PROCESSION, and other 
verses for and about children 

By Harriet Prescott Spofford 

THE LYRIC BOUGH 

By Clinton Scollard 

THE DANCERS and other Legends and Lyrics 
By Edith M. Thomas 



Other volumes in preparation 



THE GORHAM PRESS 

194-200 Boylston Street, 
BOSTON 



JUL 21 Is^i 



JUL. 24 1902 



